Ah, Weyrleader!
by GypsyAnna
Summary: Weyrleader D'ven tries to enjoy a gather. It's frequently interrupted.


**Ah, Weyrleader!**

**34.08.01, Horizon Hold**

D'ven had arrived at the gather early, gave his greetings to Rillette and her husband, and then gotten out of the way. It was necessary that he be here. Melina was trapped on the hatching sands with Sioranth, so he couldn't fob the duty off on her. Horizon's gather was an Event of the territory, and StarRise's leadership had to be represented. Yes, Taveera was coming – but she was family and he wouldn't put the burden of politics on her when she should be enjoying time with her family. He'd do it next time there was an Event that Melina couldn't attend and he found some excuse to skip. Goldriders, after all, were expected to stick around a lot longer than Weyrleaders, so her face needed to be known more than his was. The logic pleased him.

The gather was going strong, even early in the day. Vendors were doing a brisk business, and if their faces fell when they saw him coming and noted his rank cords, he was sure they perked right back up again when he passed their booths without pause. Dragonriders, by tradition, weren't really expected to pay for things. Holders and crafters gave them what they needed in exchange for protection from Thread. Most dragonriders ignored that tradition and paid for the extra bits and pieces they wanted for themselves. Enough, however, took advantage of the right to requisition that vendors were wary of most riders who approached their stalls. D'ven had a policy of dealing sternly with any of his riders he caught abusing the tradition. Holds and Halls tithed their percentage to the Weyr. If the Weyr couldn't provide a rider with what he wanted, then it wasn't considered a basic necessity of life and therefore should come from the rider's own sources.

D'ven did pause at a few stalls. At the woodcrafters he found fancifully carved combs that he thought might please Alissi and Tarina. He chose one that was carved in the shape a running runner for Tarina, and another that had a swirling pattern of flowers engraved on it for Alissi. He didn't get anything for Melina or Taveera. They had weyrmates who might take the gifts amiss. Besides, Melina was not his subordinate. While Taveera was, she hadn't been for five turns and he still considered her his peer in the Weyr's hierarchy. Small gifts for subordinates were acceptable. Gifts for peers were not.

"Ah, Weyrleader!"

D'ven turned away from the woodcarver's booth and glanced down at the man who'd hailed him. He didn't recognize him, but that wasn't unusual. A lot of people knew D'ven by sight. It was, he knew, in large part because his face was plastered on hundreds of sets of dragonpoker cards that were floating around the territory. Whoever started the tradition of using the current people of rank in a territory to decorate cards had made a renewing fortune. Every time there was a death, the deck had to be republished.

"Yes, journeyman?" D'ven responded courteously. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Just a small issue, Lord D'ven," the man said, his smile deprecating as he spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "There was a bit of an altercation at my booth, and some goods were damaged. The riders have resolved their differences, but then they left to celebrate their peacemaking – and forgot about the damage to my goods."

D'ven closed his eyes. _'And so it begins,'_ he thought grimly. He had hoped to get through more of the day before he had to start cleaning up the messes created by dragonriders. The wher of it was, not all the riders were from StarRise. But since Horizon was in StarRise's area of protection, and D'ven was StarRise's Weyrleader, _he_ was the one that had to put out all the fires.

"I see," he told the crafter. "What goods do you make, sir?"

"Pottery," the man said proudly. "I have the finest pottery in the Eastern Rings!"

D'ven winced. Pottery could be very expensive. It wasn't the material that cost so much, but the skill and labor of turning clay into something usable, and pretty. "Let's go to your stall, and I'll look over the damage," he sighed. His belt pouch already felt much lighter than it had been. "And perhaps you can give me the names of those riders who have so recently resolved their differences."

"Of course, Weyrleader," the crafter said, turning and leading him briskly down the row. "Unfortunately, one of the pieces damaged beyond repair was a commission work for Lady Rillette. She never even had the chance to see it," he added mournfully.

D'ven winced again. The man was going to scalp him.

_Can you fly, D'ven?_

_ Only when you're carrying me, _D'ven answered Venjyth absently, absorbed in the performance of a wonderful contralto.

_Could you fly if I weren't carrying you?_ Venjyth's tone was deeply puzzled and D'ven pulled his attention away from the singer and focused in on the bronze.

_No,_ he assured the dragon. _It's impossible._

Venjyth paused and his confusion increased. _Then why is the girl so upset that Lawth caught her?_

D'ven shook his head, then gave up and edged his way out of the crowd surrounding the singer's stage. There was more to Venjyth's query than he understood. _What's going on, Ven?_ he asked.

_A girl was talking to Lawth. Then she tried to fly. Lawth wanted to Search her and so he caught her. Now she's upset and crying, but Lawth is taking her to his rider. _Venjyth grumbled. _If she was trying to fly, shouldn't Lawth have left her alone?_

D'ven took a deep breath and counted to twenty. A'larin had a good head on his shoulders. Surely he could handle whatever this was without D'ven having to step in. If not, A'larin knew how to ask for help. _Don't worry about it, Venjyth. Lawth was right to stop her from flying._ The fool girl had probably tripped and fallen. What had she been doing climbing up to talk to the dragons, anyway? The cliff edge could be dangerous if you didn't have wings.

He went back to hear the rest of the contralto's performance.

"Ah, Weyrleader!"

D'ven stiffened, then turned away from the runner races to see who was hailing him this time. "Good afternoon, guardsman," he greeted the tall, muscular guard who was approaching him. The crowd near the fence that encircled the track gave way before him and he paid no attention the them. A sword on a man's belt tended to get respect.

The guard nodded sharply, coming to an at-ease stop in front of him. "Weyrleader D'ven, could you come with me, please?"

D'ven's brows rose and he looked down on the other man, crossing his arms over his chest. It was somewhat comforting to note that he was taller – by a little – than the other. "Is there a problem?" he asked mildly.

The guarded nodded once. "Yes, sir, there's a problem, sir," he reported. "We have some of your dragonriders in holding and would like to release them to your custody." The guarded relaxed the tiniest bit, enough to flick a quick glance around and lower his voice. "We're afraid if we don't get them out of the hold the fellows they were scuffling with will come looking for them," he admitted in a low tone.

D'ven sighed and uncrossed his arms. "Let's go," he said shortly, striding away from the races and towards the holding cells. Unfortunately, he knew all too well where they were.

The crowds parted for him just as quickly as they had for the man carrying the sword, but D'ven paid no attention to them. He was busy trying to figure out which punishment to try this time. Every gather, there was at least one fight. Usually more than that. He hadn't yet found a way to convince his riders that fighting was not acceptable at gathers.

The shouts coming from the holding cell were wrong. They were feminine, not the deeper tones of male voices. Outside the holding cell was a crowd of short, lean men wearing form fitting clothes that made D'ven flush just looking at them. They might as well have been naked for all they concealed.

He followed the guard inside and looked around for the riders he'd be scorching and sending home with their tails tucked between their legs. There were no men. There were, however, a half-dozen greenriders crowding against the window bars and mocking the men outside.

"Them?" he asked the guard incredulously.

The guardsman nodded. "They apparently challenged the acrobats to a contest. The ladies won, but the acrobats accused them of cheating." He glanced at the women, who still hadn't noticed D'ven's arrival. "They didn't like that apparently, so decided to show them that greenriders weren't only just as flexible as they were, but were just as strong – and had just as good a punch."

"Weyrleader!"

Well, someone had noticed his arrival. Silence fell abruptly and the guard beside him muttered a soft, "Wow…" D'ven crossed his arms again and assumed his 'you're in deep wher dung' expression. The shouts from outside slowly faded as the acrobats realized the women had left the window and had stopped hurling insults their way. D'ven looked at each of the six women, and noted that only two were StarRise riders.

"Fighting at gathers is not allowed," he said. His riders flinched. "You will immediately return to your own Weyrs, after you give your names to the guard. I will contact your Weyrleaders with notice of this infraction." He pinned his two riders with a glare and they wilted back, finally looking ashamed of themselves. "You two," he rumbled ominously, "I will deal with tomorrow. You're confined to your quarters until I summon you."

"Yes, Weyrleader," they said in subdued tones.

D'ven turned to the guard. "Can you disperse the acrobats?"

The guardsman nodded and pointed to two other guards to deal with it. D'ven waited while he got the names of the other riders, and their home Weyrs, and then escorted all six women to the landing field. He waited and watched until the last green disappeared _between_. Shaking his head, he returned to the gather.

Maybe he could see the last couple of races still…

"Ah, Weyrleader!"

D'ven's shoulders tensed and he barely kept from hunching them defensively. This time the voice was female…and seemed to be trying to purr. What _now_? Dreading what new disaster was waiting for his attention, he turned around.

And had a woman plastered to him before he even saw her. "Uh…" He took a step back and she moved with him.

"It's been a very long time, D'ven," the woman smoldered, pressing against him so hard he almost fell over backwards. "I thought I'd never see you again. Why didn't you come back, like you said you would?" She pouted, lush red lips moist and artfully provocative.

D'ven wracked his brain. He had no idea who this woman was. He'd never seen her before, and he had no idea what she was talking about. While he frantically tried to place her, her arms snaked around his neck and tightened like elevator cables, dragging him down. Before he realized what she was doing, she was up on tiptoe, pulling his head down, and planting her lips over his.

"Mphm!" D'ven jerked away and set his hands on her shoulders, forcing her back. "Miss, you've mistaken me for someone else," he said firmly, making sure his eyes stayed on her face and didn't drift lower, where her wiggles and efforts to get closer to him were doing interesting things to what she was calling a dress.

A flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he looked up to see two blueriders exchanging marks: N'ser and Sc'lee. One was grinning, but the other was clearly irritated, and both were looking in his direction. D'ven's eyes narrowed and his mind raced. Then he smiled and looked down at the pillowcrafter who was protesting her undying devotion.

"Do you have a friend who'd like to join you in making a few marks?" he asked.

She stopped her act and looked at him with a sharp, avaricious gleam in her brown eyes. "What did you have in mind?" she drawled, spreading her hands across his chest and giving him a sultry smile. "Thinking you can handle two of us?"

D'ven chuckled. "Two men couldn't handle just you," he assured her. "I have something else in mind, however. Those two riders who purchased your services?"

"Mmm-hmmm?"

"I'll pay you and your friend to follow them around the gather, pretending to be their rejected women. You can be as dramatic as you want. The more you embarrass them, the better."

Interest sparkled in her dark eyes. "I could probably do that," she agreed consideringly. She gave him an arch look. "You're an attractive man, Weyrleader. Are you sure you don't want to get what those blueriders already paid for?"

D'ven chuckled and patted her shoulder. "Thank you all the same, but no – I don't think my Weyrwoman would understand." Melina wouldn't give a wher's talon, he was sure, but the excuse was handy and the pillowcrafter didn't know any different.

She sighed. "Figures. All right, then, Weyrleader. Hand over the marks first, and then we'll give those two lads a good lesson." She grinned wickedly. "This'll be the most fun I've had in a while."

D'ven handed over the marks and watched her sashay away. Even if she didn't follow through, at least he'd managed to send her along before she made too much of a scene with him!

"Ah, Weyrleader!"

D'ven cursed under his breath. The entire afternoon had been peppered with that phrase. Minor little issues and hiccups that required no more than a word or two from him – and shouldn't have needed even that. He'd wandered from performance to event to game to vendor stall, and everywhere he went there trailed that sharding, "Ah, Weyrleader!"

"What?" he snapped, then shut his eyes and squeezed his hands into fists as he forced a more cordial tone. "I'm sorry, guardsman. What can I do for you?"

The guard eyed him warily and kept a cautious distance between them. "We need you near the dancing square, Weyrleader. A wingleader and a couple of other riders are involved in a brawl."

_**Wingleader?!**_

D'ven cursed sulfurously as he marched through the gather. The guardsman trailed behind him, trotting to keep up. D'ven didn't bother to wait for him, and people scrambled to get out of his way. It wasn't hard to find the brawl; the shouting, milling mass of people looked like a many-armed monster out of a nightmare. It was, naturally, at an ale vendor's stall. D'ven could imagine what happened, but didn't much care.

He spotted T'llar in the midst of it and another rider around his age with riding goggles strapped around his head. Another rider, much older and who had no business at all being in the middle of a fight, was struggling to get back to his feet.

D'ven waded in. He grabbed collars and knocked heads together, then tossed the dazed alehouse warriors aside to recover their senses – or consciousness, whichever was most lost. He looked back behind him to find the guard, and pointed to the barrels of water that were standing outside the stall. Perhaps water would help dilute the ale fumes. He turned back in time to catch a flying fist, spin the puncher around and hoist the wrist up behind the shoulder blades. The man yelped in pain and went up on tiptoe. D'ven pushed him out of the way and finally reached the old man. He hauled him to his feet, propelled him out of the melee, and then went back and fetched T'llar and the other rider.

His care was rewarded with a punch that snapped his head to one side. "Oh, shells," he heard. "Uh, D'ven. I didn't realize it was you."

"Why don't you go sit down, T'llar?" _'Before I throw you down,'_ he added silently. "And take your friend with you."

T'llar grabbed the other rider's shoulder and pulled him out of the fight – which now seemed just as pleased to continue without them. D'ven followed them, and nodded to the guards who'd hoisted the barrels up to the shoulders. The dousing began in earnest once D'ven and his riders were clear.

Taveera was waiting, with first aid supplies to tend to any injuries that her family had collected in the brawl. D'ven glowered at the three fighters, then shook his head and rolled his eyes to the sky. "Tomorrow's soon enough," he announced, then looked at the goldrider. "Can you _try_ to control your family? At least for a few more hours?" Taveera bit her lip and shrugged. D'ven sighed and walked off before anything else could go wrong.

"Weyrleader! Those guards ruined good ale on your orders!" the vendor shouted after him.

D'ven paused and lifted his belt pouch. It was a lot lighter than it had been when he started the day. What the shell… He tossed the pouch to the vendor. "If that doesn't cover it, sir, send a bill to the Weyr, attention Wingleader T'llar."

"Ah, Weyrleader!"

Another female voice, light and playful, reached out to caress his ears. D'ven froze and closed his eyes. Not again. Faranth take him _between_, but _not_ again. Could he even enjoy the anonymity of the shadows long enough to listen to the harpers play? Was it another pillowcrafter, come to embarrass him? Or a greenrider who needed a problem solved, a rescue from a smitten holder, or a few marks to get her out of her gambling trouble? Or a crafter, come to get compensation for goods ruined by careless riders?

"The music is lovely, isn't it?" The voice continued and D'ven turned to see just who it was, and why she hadn't promptly delivered an explanation of her problem.

She wasn't a rider. Her rank cords were those of a journeyman weaver. Her hair was a frothy halo of blond that hung to her waist, and her fair face was sweetly heart-shaped, with high cheekbones, full lips, and a small, almost delicate, chin. Her nose was straight and fine, and her eyes were round, wide, and vivid blue. Not the sapphire blue of Taveera's family, but a lighter, pure blue, with a hint of green, like the waters around the Eastern Ring islands.

Those full lips lifted in a smile and D'ven realized that he hadn't responded to her yet. "Journeyman," he said, bowing to her and answering her smile with his own. "Yes, the music is excellent," he agreed.

"I'm Belsara," she said, holding out her hand and introducing herself. D'ven took the hand, but instead of clasping it and letting go, he turned it and kissed the top. She laughed lightly, but didn't pull away. "The music is perfect for dancing," she suggested.

"I believe you're right," D'ven agreed. "I don't suppose you'd care to take a few turns around the floor with me?"

She laughed again and tightened her fingers around his hand as she turned away. "I thought you'd never ask. Stop hiding in the shadows, Weyrleader, and come enjoy the gather!"

"Gladly," D'ven chuckled. He followed her, his eyes tracing the voluptuous curves of her body, the graceful sway of her hips, as she led him onto the floor. His mood lifted immediately. Belsara was a beauty, but at the moment he was certain that any woman would a cheerful disposition would have seemed glorious to him.

The harpers had begun a slower song; the evening was winding to a close and the energy of the dancers was greatly diminished. D'ven put one hand on Belsara's waist and waited for her to put her other hand in his. She didn't bother. She put both of her hands on his shoulders. "I hope you don't mind that I kidnapped you," she said with a grin as the music started. "You were looking all dark and broody and I just couldn't have that. I wanted to see if you could smile. You have a very nice smile, Weyrleader. You should use it more often."

D'ven chuckled. "It's been a busy day," he said, shrugging as he guided her around the floor. "But it's better now."

Much, much better. As the dance continued and Belsara kept up a stream of light, amusing chatter, D'ven felt himself forgetting all the countless annoyances and interruptions. As the dance neared the end, he decide this was one of the most enjoyable gathers he'd been to in a very long time, and over far too soon.


End file.
